I Live Out Past the Dove Fields

I live out past the dove fields.

Come and see me.

If you don’t mind, stop and help the box turtles, make sure they make it across the pavement.  When you get to the gravel just slow down for the rabbits, the field mice.  Yield to the occasional canebrake, they’re hunting now.  Soon the sunflowers will come up and doves will cover the powerlines, unaware of the approaching pellet storm.  Pass an occasional turkey and two young bucks, they guard the transition into the forest.

For a while, I said that I came here because the river called me or that I had returned to be deep in the woods, a slower pace of life, time to heal, to feel connected, to be whole.  I might have come here to build a new home, to live on a lake, to be so close to the trails, and to spend more time on the ancient river that seems to have taken up such prominent real estate in my psyche.  Those are all good reasons to live here but I don’t think that’s why I came.

The fact is, I think I came here to take care of a little coon hound.  That hound showed up in November and I named him Rufus.  To say Rufus was special captures nothing of the way he took up so much real estate in my heart.  Traumatized, always ravenously hungry, and initially unable to ever settle down – he was double jointed, bowlegged, mostly blind, devoid of depth perception, he drank unimaginable amounts of water and paced endlessly.  He was so excited at meals as he danced around, throwing himself in the air, crashing on the ground, if he didn’t knock the bowl out of your hand, he lunged once you put it down sending it flying across the ground.  A few weeks ago, he ran full speed in to the side of the tiny house.

By spring, Rufus was starting to adjust, on warm, sunny days he was able to nap during the day.  He had started scratching on the door at 6pm, ready to curl up on the couch.  He might approach, or at least not run away, when we had company.  It had taken months, but Rufus was starting to feel safe.  I would still hold him as he shook for no reason, trying to calm his nervous system.  He talked more than any dog we’ve ever owned, a soft moan, a little bit like a cat – we could never tell if it was pain or joy.

Ironically, it ended up being our plumber Tom - mild mannered, meticulous, extremely careful - who hit Rufus.  So many trucks had come and gone and backing is a part of any vehicle’s trip to our property.  Rufus was initially terrified of trucks but as he settled down and failed to run off at the site of visitors, the traffic increased; we were in the final push to finish up the build.  His reduced vigilance put him at great risk and when I heard and then saw what happened, I knew my time with Rufus was over.  He might have survived but with his pelvis broken in so many places, recovery seemed more than he needed to face.  It was time for Rufus to truly rest.

Rufus is down by the creek now, he loved water!  We like to think he’s ok, we gave him the best goodbye we could, a prayer, flowers, his bed and blanket, even the benebone he loved to chew but could only keep track of for a few moments. 

We had decided to let Rufus go on May 4^th, the day before the spring eclipse portal closed.  This eclipse season, I guess like all others, was about transformation but had become so much about death, actual death.  Through the portal, we had followed the heart-wrenching story of Elyse’s friend, Lyza, slipping into unconsciousness, her story becoming national news as the strength of the family and the outpouring of love took center stage as her spirit seemed to soar out of the immense grief.

So the portal closed, for me, with these images of Rufus seared in my mind, angry that our time with him had been so short, and that his time, which had finally become about more than survival, had entered a new phase.  The day after he left us, I headed up to Pisgah to be on my bike – riding, then crying, trying to remember these mountains that I call home.  The portal closed and I sat on the side of the trail sobbing but suddenly becoming aware that, if I could love everything – everything in this world, everyone, love my self – the way I loved Rufus that would a path to awakening, that would be enlightenment.

So, I hope to be, for as long as possible, out here, past the dove fields, next to Rufus, staying put, walking this path, on this long journey.  The Lakota Sioux call this “the longest journey, the journey of 18 inches, the journey from the head to the heart.”

If you get the chance, come and see me, come and be with Rufus.